


post-finale getting-back-together fic

by glycerineclown



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Looking (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glycerineclown/pseuds/glycerineclown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days after Patrick comes by for the haircut, Richie worries about trusting himself. He’ll have to keep his boundaries up early on, not let Patrick get too close too fast, ‘cause if they’re going to happen again, it’s going to have to go slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	post-finale getting-back-together fic

**Author's Note:**

> **Anonymous asked: i miss looking and i miss your looking fics! how about some post-finale fic, please?! :)**
> 
> Thank you to carnitasychicharrones, who graciously helped with the Spanish ♥  
> NC-17, post-finale Patrick/Richie, ~2000 words

In the days after Patrick comes by for the haircut, Richie worries about trusting himself. He’ll have to keep his boundaries up early on, not let Patrick get too close too fast, ‘cause if they’re going to happen again, it’s going to have to go slow. Patrick was vulnerable and present, something that always draws him in.

And sure, he’s broken up with Brady—he knows how it feels to love someone and that wasn’t it—but everything still feels raw. He’s been flayed open. They both have.

He’s worried that he’ll stagger right back into love with Patrick. And he’s worried that he won’t—no, he knows he will—but that when he does, it’ll fucking destroy him.

But it’s not a chance any bit of him is unwilling to take.

 

 

Patrick’s hair has grown out a bit the next time they see each other. He’s just come off a job interview and his face says it didn’t go very well.

They get comfort food and play a dollar and a half’s worth of air hockey.

It’s January in San Francisco.

 

 

Richie doesn’t press about what happened with Kevin. Patrick seems over it, but in the tight-lipped, _somebody done fucked up_ kind of way. He’d quit his job at MDG and moved back in with Agustín, who had finally gotten a second job to cover his half of the rent.

Patrick lands a new gig two or three weeks later doing some web design and IT stuff. It’s quite a bit below his pay grade, but there isn’t a drug test for it, so they smoke a bowl in lawn chairs on the roof of Richie’s building to celebrate.

Patrick tries and fails at blowing smoke rings into the night air, finally pulling up a tutorial on his phone but getting nowhere—and by that point he’s smoked too much to keep at it.

Richie’s blackened fingertips find their way into Patrick’s hair, and Patrick tips back into it.

“Sing me that song about the planets again,” he says softly, and Richie does.

 

 

They run into each other on the MUNI again.

Patrick sees the Giants hat before anything else—his breath catches in his throat—and then the scruff and the baseball jacket, and he sits down in front of Richie with raised eyebrows. The girl sitting next to Richie glances up at him, and then back down at her book, adjusting her headphones.

Richie leans forward, folds his arms over Patrick’s backrest. “Hey, doctor.”

Patrick grins. “Hi.”

They start texting almost daily after that.

 

 

Richie joins Patrick for some kind of downtown block party with live music and food trucks, and Patrick grabs his hand to keep them together as they move through the dense crowd.

They ply themselves with margaritas and dance the way they used to.

Patrick smells just the way he remembers.

His body _wants_ —wants to just wrap around Patrick’s skin, to slide his hands over Patrick’s shoulders and tuck his nose under Patrick’s jaw, to slot their hips together—and he holds back for the first few songs, letting Patrick lead, as it were. Patrick’s all slow-moving and grinny, tipsy exuberance, and it reminds him of simpler shit.

The band shifts into a cover of a late nineties R&B ballad and Patrick pulls Richie’s arms around his neck.

They linger with just their foreheads together for an entire chorus and verse.

 

 

Ceci’s masterpiece, _La Adelita_ , is in a car show at the beginning of March—she’s shining like chrome in the sun, but Richie and Ceci aren’t looking. They’re hiding by the passenger door while people walk by.

“I swear I didn’t know he was going to be here. _Te lo prometo, primo_. My dad must have told him about it.”

Patrick squints between the two of them with his hand over his brow.

Richie’s jaw is set, and he glances over at Patrick. “I guess you’re about to meet my dad, Pato.”

“Oh… shit. Okay, what should I do?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to do anything.”

Patrick can pick Javier Donado out of the crowd immediately—he’s Richie but thirty years older, balding and formidable. He’s leaning on a cane as he approaches, smiling at Ceci. She walks around the hood to meet him, and he gives her a one-armed hug, looking down at _La Adelita_.

“ _Viva la raza_ — _sobrina, está espléndida_. You’re doing good work without us, huh?”

Ceci grins at him. “ _Sí, gracias_.”

Javier nods at his son shortly, extending a hand to shake. “Ricardo.” Ceci’s face falls, and she looks down.

Richie takes it, breathes out.

 

 

It goes okay. Richie keeps reminding himself that it was Ceci’s day, that it doesn’t matter how warm his dad was to her, but it stings and that just makes him feel like a child.

There was always so much machismo wrapped up in the auto mechanic business—his dad would probably hate him just for cutting hair whether he was gay or straight. Maybe Ceci was the one living up to all those expectations, now.

Richie had introduced Patrick as a friend, which was true. No real lies by omission there.

He still feels bad about it, though.

They take the train back, and Patrick’s got a hand in the crook of his elbow, squeezing. “What were you going to do, say, ‘Oh, this is Patrick, the _pinche puto_ who fucked around on me?’”

“I don’t know, Pato. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

He presses his forehead into Richie’s shoulder with a sigh. “D’you wanna go take a nap?”

Richie groans. “Okay.”

They both get off at Patrick’s stop and take the stairs up to his door.

Patrick turns on a lamp in the bedroom and empties his pockets onto the dresser while Richie toes his shoes off. Scrubbing his hands over his face, Patrick sighs again.

“Maybe—it doesn’t have to be today, but I think we really need to talk about this. Us.”

“Yeah. No, we should.” Richie’s had a lot of time to think, to put his shit in perspective, 20/20 hindsight and all.

Patrick has too. He turns, steps up to Richie. “Can I start?”

Nodding, Richie looks down at his feet, and back up at him when Patrick’s hand settles around the back of his neck.

“I wasn’t fair to you,” Patrick begins, shaking his head. “I don’t think I knew what I wanted when we were together. The best thing Kevin did was give me a fucking reality check, and I’m sorry I had to go through so much shit to figure it out. I want to do better. You deserve better.”

“Yeah, I do,” he replies with a straight face, until Patrick’s mouth starts curling up. “Pato—god, you’re somethin’ else.”

“Well, but the thing is—when I make you happy, I feel good about myself.”

Richie smiles, shaking his head while Patrick’s hand brushes over the scruff on his cheek.

“I want you to introduce me as your boyfriend next time, and not feel anything but pride, Richie.”

He’s leaning into Patrick’s hand, stepping closer. He tugs gently on the front of Patrick’s t-shirt.

When he kisses Patrick again—after so long—god, it’s like coming home, like he hasn’t been quite right in _months_. His fingers dig into Patrick’s hair and he sighs out a “Fuck, I’ve missed you,” without even meaning to.

Patrick slips his other hand into Richie’s back pocket and squeezes gently, grinding their hips together before walking them back towards the bed. One of them lets out a long groan as they collapse onto it, and then an open-handed pounding starts on the other side of the wall.

“Fucking _finally, thank god_ , Patty!”

Patrick snorts into Richie’s neck. “I didn’t know Agustín was home,” he says, rolling over and moving to his knees on the mattress. “We _can_ just take a nap, though. I was serious.”

Richie shakes his head and grabs Patrick’s hand, pressing it over his half-hard dick.

Patrick grins and steps off the bed to tug Richie’s jeans down, tossing them on the floor before sending his own t-shirt to join it. He puts a knee up on the mattress, and Richie spreads his legs.

“Really wanna get my mouth on you,” Patrick says, slurring a bit, and goes right for his cock.

He gets Richie all worked up through the cotton of his boxer-briefs, until it’s clinging to him even tighter than before. Richie’s hands smooth over the freckles on his shoulders and cup the back of his head, and Patrick can’t help but arch into it, nuzzling at the inside of his wrists.

Patrick pushes Richie’s shirt up his chest and then tugs the briefs off, leaving them around one ankle. He kisses at Richie’s stomach, nosing into his hip as he wraps a hand around Richie’s dick.

He wants it inside him. He ducks down to lave his tongue around the base.

“Fu-uck, Pato.”

Patrick looks up, meets Richie’s eyes with a lopsided smile. “All in good time.”

He leans on an elbow and takes most of Richie’s cock down in one go, working it with his tongue a little before moving back up to suckle on the head.

One of Richie’s hands leave Patrick’s head, and when he glances up, Richie’s tweaking one of his nipples, arching his back.

Patrick groans around him, presses the heel of his hand over the front of his pants. He comes up for air after a minute or so, uses his hands to tug gently on Richie’s balls, to rub at the skin behind them. 

Patrick clears his throat and licks up the length of Richie’s cock before taking him down again.

It’s like everything but their bodies and the bed just disappear. Richie’s hips push forward.

 

 

They wake up hungry, and Patrick makes sandwiches.

He’s separating layers of deli meat when Agustin walks into the kitchen with a toothy grin splitting his face in half. Agustín fills a mug with water, and hops up to sit on the counter next to Patrick’s open jar of mayo.

Richie’s seated at the kitchen table, and over the rim of his mug, Agustin side-eyes back and forth between the two of them.

“Thanks for your blessing,” Patrick says, elbowing him.

“I’m just so—ugh. If you guys want me to make myself scarce, say the word and I’ll call Eddie.”

Patrick turns away from the counter to look at Richie, who smirks a little.

“Alright, give me five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.”

They only get halfway through the sandwiches.

 

 

Richie fucks him slow, on his knees, hands wrapped tight around Patrick’s hips.

He’d been so careful with his fingers—there was lube on the sheets and on Patrick’s thighs, and Richie had found just the right angle to get at his prostate. He’d kept eye contact, checked in with him—everything Patrick had expected from Richie, imagined, _fantasized_ about before they broke up and after their day exploring the city.

Patrick lays back for the first few minutes after Richie enters him, just touching Richie’s chest with a soft smile on his face, one leg over Richie’s shoulder. They talk in low tones about nothing, and sweat slips down Richie’s arms, eventually taking Patrick’s calf with it.

Richie leans in for a kiss, and Patrick gives him one before rolling them over to ride him.

“I like having your hands here,” he says after he seats himself again on Richie’s cock, dragging Richie’s hands back up his thighs to grip his hips. “I wanna see your fingerprints there in the morning.”

Richie grins lazily at that. “‘Cause this ass belongs to me now, huh, _cariño_?”

Patrick nods, humming, and slams down hard, punching a moan out of Richie. “Please.”

“Whatever—whatever you want, Pato,” he says, almost breathlessly as Patrick swings his hips up again. “Oh, my god.”

Richie steadies his heels against the duvet and fucks up into Patrick, meeting his thrusts two, three, four, five more times, until he’s fucking panting, squeezing his eyes shut and fisting Patrick’s cock—

Richie spills into the condom and every clenched muscle in his body just goes lax. He squints his eyes open in time to watch Patrick come in stripes over his chest with his mouth wide open, and then he lets his mind go blank.

Pato is smiling down at him when there are shapes and colors in his vision again. He’s leaning forward with his hands on the mattress, and Richie reaches down to hold the condom while Patrick slides off.

He gets up to tie off the condom and files the image away for himself.

 

 

Patrick rolls over the next morning and smiles when he meets Richie’s armpit. “You wan’ go get breakfast?”

“St. Francis,” Richie grumbles back, his eyes still closed. “Pancakes.”

“You read my mind.”

 

 

He shouldn’t have worried. Well, not about all of it, anyway.


End file.
